Chapter Text
Now
He sleeps through his alarm. Max has never been a heavy sleeper; his brain is permanently eager to be awake and his body only ever a few seconds away from motion. This morning though, he wakes to the dim light of the creeping sunrise streaming through the window behind him. It's fall now, there's not a green leaf left on the trees a block away in Prospect Park to suggest otherwise, so sunrise means he's late, and more than a little.
Rolling out of bed before he's fully conscious, Max rubs his eyes with his fingertips, calling out to Luna on his way into the shower to make sure she's awake too. Within ten frantic minutes he's ready to leave—although sorely lacking in caffeine, and feeling all the worse for it—and attempting to wrestle Luna into a sweater while he waits for the toaster to finish. Something feels strange, though; off kilter. Catching sight of the leather jacket draped over the arm of his couch, he remembers exactly what his subconscious must have been trying seriously hard to repress, and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh.
It’s not going to be a good day.
Last Night, 8:47pm
"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm really glad the sitter canceled." Helen flops back against the worn leather of the booth, looking down at the toddler curled up on the seat next to her, who's fast asleep with her head propped up on her father's coat, completely unaware of the hustle and bustle and neon lights of the diner around them. She tucks Luna's hair behind her ear to get it out of her face, using her other hand to push half a plate of uneaten french fries away from her and towards Max, who's doing that half-bashful half-smouldering smile that still makes her stomach do backflips.
"Me too. You're so good with her," Max says, but the way he looks at her makes it clear he's trying to use these words as a proxy for something else.
Helen holds his gaze for a few seconds, trying to work out exactly why his pupils are dilated and wondering vaguely what it means that she doesn't just know what the subtext is here, like she so often does with him. Max breaks the eye contact first, picking up a french fry from her plate and eating it like it's something to do, rather than because he's hungry.
Helen might be absolutely head-over-heels in love with Max, with the kind of intensity she hasn't felt since she was a teenager, but she's not an idiot. They've been doing this whole softly-softly giving it a go thing for the entire summer now, wrapped up in their own little world of weekend dates with Luna, nights in each other's beds where neither of them sleep a wink—either because they're talking about nothing and everything into the small hours, or because they're trying to make up for lost time in completely different ways—and stolen moments in hospital hallways which always feel too chaste and too fragile. They've told the smallest number of people they can get away with at work, which basically means just HR, Sandra, and Lauren, who'd found them standing a little too close together in an ED supply closet that neither of them had any business being in, and figured them out instantly. At some point, there's a conversation to be had about the future, and the fact that Max has been absent-mindedly chewing the same french fry for the last thirty seconds indicates that that point might be now.
"Let's get out of here," she whispers, reaching into her purse and tucking a few crisp bills underneath the salt shaker.
Max looks from Helen to the cash on the table like he's trying to work out whether it's worth having the argument over who pays. Helen rolls her eyes in response, really hoping that they're past first date etiquette otherwise the conversation they're about to have is going to be entirely premature. The message must get across, at least partially, because Max nods and obliges, scooping a still sleeping Luna up into his arms and tucking his coat around her for the walk.
Now
On the subway, Max writes, deletes and then rewrites the same text four times before realising he and Luna are about to miss their stop. In the rush of getting to his feet, grabbing Luna and diving out before the doors close on them, he must hit send, because the next time he looks at his phone the message is staring back at him like a taunt.
I'm really sorry. Please can we talk?
He checks every few minutes as they walk the last few blocks from 28th Street to the hospital. The text remains unread.
Last Night, 9:10pm
She walks them down from the diner to Union Square, and much like that first night where Max had walked her home in a state of absolute emotional paralysis and she'd steadfastly refused to do anything more than meet him in the middle, Helen finds herself walking in step with him through the darkening streets of Gramercy Park, waiting for words that don't come.
When they reach the subway, Max looks crestfallen; more than he has any right to, really. "Sorry," he says, in recognition of his own awkwardness, shuffling Luna from one hip to the other. "Will you... Do you wanna come back with us? Not like—I just mean to talk, somewhere quieter."
Helen sighs. Heading to Brooklyn with them now means either catching a forty minute cab home later at the time she'd normally be fast asleep in bed—and let's face it, she's not doing that—or getting up even earlier than their regular early starts to drop by her apartment before work and change. Looking at the expression on Max's face though, she knows she's not going to walk away from him like this tonight.
"Okay," she says, letting the single word be his lifeline.
Now
Once he's dropped Luna off at daycare, Max skips the pretence and takes the elevator straight back down to Helen's office. Much to his frustration, she's not there, and he spends twenty minutes pacing the hallways of Oncology and then Hematology, growing steadily more frustrated.
"Looking for Helen?" The sound of Iggy's voice behind him makes Max spin on his heels. He's almost done a full loop back to her office at this point.
"Yeah," he says, peering into the lab over Iggy's shoulder. She's not in there, so he takes a few steps backwards to the next door and checks that one too. "We had a, uh—you know what, it doesn't matter. Are you?"
"Yup, she asked me to come and assess one of her patients, but the weirdest thing happened. She didn't show up for the appointment. I paged her, got nothing. Normally whenever I can't find her, I look for you, so now I'm out of ideas."
Max stops trying doors at that point, his irritation melting away, replaced by a little more concern than he'd care to admit, at least to Iggy. "She missed an appointment? That's really not like Helen." Avoiding him is one thing, but this? Something else is going on. He looks back to Iggy.
"I'm going to find her," Max says decisively, clapping Iggy on the shoulder and trying to muster a level of confidence that he really doesn't have right now. "I'll send her up to you when I do. I'm sure there's a sensible explanation for all this."
He makes his way back to the elevators, down to the ground floor and through the atrium, dodging through the morning rush of the departing night shift and the arriving day shift, until he reaches the security desk.
"Hey Larry," Max puts both palms down on the edge of the desk and gives his favorite security guy a winning smile. "I really need a favor. Can you tell me the last place Doctor Sharpe swiped her keycard this morning? It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack in this place sometimes, except there are actually ten haystacks and the needle keeps moving."
Larry gives him a dry chuckle. "Sure, Doctor Goodwin. Let me check." He turns his attention to the PC in front of him. Max can't see what he's doing, so he listens to the sound of the mouse clicks and Larry's intermittent slow typing, wishing he could speed up time. After a minute or so, Larry looks up. "Nope, she's not here."
"What?" Max frowns.
"She hasn't used her card since six last night." Larry shrugs and then, like he's trying to be helpful, adds, "Maybe she's on vacation."
Like hell she is, Max mutters to himself under his breath, wondering if it would make everything worse if he showed up at her apartment right now. "Thanks Larry," he calls distractedly, already making his way back towards the ED. If anyone can be relied upon to know where Helen is when it feels like she's dropped off the face of the earth, it's Bloom.
Last Night, 10:16pm
Max has been building up to asking her something for the last half hour. Helen knows this, because his jaw is clenched like it always is when he's choosing words carefully in his head, as if it'll stop them spilling out, and he's got that telltale 'it's about us' glimmer in his eye. She hovers in the doorway to the bedroom of his apartment feeling like a spare part while he gets Luna ready for bed and puts her down, the necessary silence of the process landing somewhere between comfortable and drawn-out.
"So," she says, as they eventually make it back into the living room. She slips off her jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch, choosing not to think about what it means that they're facing each other at opposite ends of it rather than glued together side-to-side like they usually are. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"
Max swallows. "Luna's getting really used to having you around." He looks ruefully at her and adds, "And to be honest, I think I am, too."
Helen isn't following. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No, no not at all," Max replies quickly, clearly not wanting her to take it the wrong way. "But I wanna be careful. She asks about you when you're not here, and I don't want to confuse her, if..."
"If this isn't for the long haul," Helen realizes, surprising herself with how quickly the words make it out.
The corner of Max's mouth twitches like he's about to smile, but thinks better of it. "That makes it sound like I'm not sure how I feel about you, which isn't true. I'm completely in love with you, I hope you know that."
It's so effortless for him to bare his soul like that, even after all the pain and loss he's experienced, that Helen has to quickly crush a small surge of envy that rises inside her. When they'd first met she'd thought he was closed off, but she'd quickly realized he's an emotional open book as long as you know which pages to look at. He just struggles to get the words out, sometimes. Helen is his emotional polar opposite; she never has any trouble putting words to her feelings, but she keeps them clasped to her chest compulsively for fear that if she starts, she won't be able to stop and she'll spill over and be too much. So she nods simply and reassuringly, but doesn't say anything in response.
"I'm not doing a very good job at this," Max continues. "What I'm trying to ask is, what do you think about moving in with us?"
Helen lets out a breath that's half way to a laugh because it's such a curveball that it catches her off-guard, and she needs a few seconds to process it. Deep down she'd been worried he was going to say he wasn't ready to get any more serious than they already are, and that it would be best if Luna didn't get too attached before he's ready to deal with the implications of that, but this feels a long way from that. "Wow, I wasn't expecting to have this conversation," she says, quietly. Then, second guessing how that sounds, she adds, "That doesn't mean I don't want to have it, just that I wasn't expecting it."
Max's expression breaks into a tentative smile. It strikes her how good hope looks on him; she doesn't think she could ever wear vulnerability with that kind of ease. "It doesn't have to be a whole conversation right now." He closes the distance between them, running his thumb across her cheek. Helen shivers under his touch. "You could just say yes and we'll figure the rest out tomorrow."
This makes her laugh for real, softly against his lips. "There are probably some follow-up questions," she grins. Max gives her an expectant look, so she carries on. "Do we tell people at work? Where do we want to live? That kind of thing..."
"Oh," he looks a little taken aback. "I'm happy to tell everyone at work if you are too, but as for where we live, I just kind of assumed you'd move in here."
It's not the answer she'd wanted to hear, and she has a hard time concealing the feeling of disappointment. Max must notice it creep over her face, because he pulls back again and asks "Wait, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," Helen sighs. Except, well, it's not nothing. She tries again. "Well... You just assumed it would be me moving in with you, even though my place is bigger and closer to work, and this apartment was, you know, your marital home for—I don't even know how long, half a decade?" It comes out harsher than she'd intended, but she's not sure there's anything she can say to salvage it at this point so she lets her eyes drift to the floor instead.
"Well," Max says, struggling for words again. "Luna and I finally have a real routine worked out here. I like the neighborhood. Would it be the worst thing?"
"Not the worst, no," she concedes, walking the line between not wanting to spoil a nice moment with a difficult conversation, and not wanting to feel like a pushover. "But I feel like I'm making this constant stream of tiny sacrifices here and there for you that sometimes I don't think you even notice. And they add up to something that isn't small anymore."
"Hey, slow down." Max sounds affronted, his voice suddenly strained. "What sacrifices? I haven't asked you to do anything."
Helen can feel herself getting upset, her throat tightening with that old familiar ache which hurts to talk through. "It's like at the hospital, when you come up with an absolutely insane idea and people have to bend over backwards to make it happen. You won't triage and you won't compromise, so someone else always ends up making compromises for you silently behind the scenes."
She takes a deep breath. "I would never question the fact that you have to put Luna first, and god knows I wish you'd put yourself higher up on your own list of priorities, but I need to know that when it matters, you'd be willing to give something up for me."
Max's face falls, concern setting over his features. "Of course I would."
"That's easy to say," Helen sighs again. "But..."
"But what?"
She looks up at him and holds his gaze. "But talk is cheap."
"So what," he scoffs, indignant now. "I have to leave my home to prove a point?"
Something about how he says it flips the switch taking Helen from exasperated to pissed off, and she retorts "I have to leave mine so you don't?" not caring if the implied ultimatum is unfair. The floodgates are open now. "The way you're acting is giving me whiplash, Max. You keep Luna at arm's length from me while giving me those looks and telling me I'm so good with her, you want to move in together but only if it's me moving in with you; you won't even seem to consider it the other way around. I can't keep doing everything on your terms."
Helen gets to her feet, collecting herself with shallow breaths, knowing full well what this might mean for them, but unable to see a way back from having this conversation now that they're in it. "And you know what?" She adds, as she picks up her bag. "I shouldn't have to."
"Don't leave," Max gets to his feet with her, reaching his arms out to her sides. "I want to talk about this."
She shrugs off his grip, turning away so she doesn't have to see the hurt look in his eyes. There's no point in torturing them both by stringing it out tonight.
"I don't think you do want to talk about it, Max. You just want to skip to the part where I agree with you. I think you need to take some time and work out if this is really what you want, or if you want some idealized version of it where I slot into your life without you having to change anything at all."
This seems to stun him into silence, because he doesn't stop her or say another word as she crosses the room and opens the door, stepping out into the hallway and closing it quietly behind her.
It's not until fifteen minutes later when she's shivering in the back seat of a taxi, speeding through South Slope that she remembers she'd left her jacket in Max's living room. It's such a stupid tiny thing but it's enough to tip her over the edge, destroying the emotional balancing act she'd been trying to maintain since leaving his building. She rests her head against the cold window and cries for what they might have just lost.
Now
On his way to the ED, Max calls her again, hoping beyond hope that this time she'll pick up, even if she's still mad.
'Hi, you've reached Helen Sharpe, please leave a message.'
It takes all his self-restraint not to throw his phone against a wall.
This Morning, 1:09am
Max Goodwin - Missed Calls (4)
Helen switches off her phone.
Now
Before he can get more than a few steps inside the ED, Casey presses a clipboard and pen into Max's chest with a hasty "Thanks for coming down, we need your signature on these." Max didn't actually know he was needed down here, but sometimes it just goes like that, so he takes the win and chooses not to tell Casey it's a complete accident. He tries to multitask writing half a dozen signatures while scanning the ED and trauma rooms for Bloom, without luck.
"Incoming!"
Max's reflexes kick in just in time to get him out of the path of the gurney which crashes through the doors from the ambulance bay, flanked by two young EMTs.
"Thirty year-old male, second degree burns to the upper body, smoke inhalation," one of them calls out.
Out of nowhere and yet somehow in the same instant, Bloom is at the patient's side, calling to one of the nurses for heparin and more oxygen. "Bay five," she tells the EMT, and Max decides she's probably got enough on her hands right now and that he's better off coming back later.
As he heads for the hallway, he hears Bloom ask the EMT, "House fire?"
"Yeah, big one in the West Village, there's a few more coming."
Max stops dead in his tracks, feeling the blood physically drain from his face. He turns back to them. "Which street?"
The EMT looks up, confused as to where the question is coming from at first until he sets eyes on Max, which, if anything leaves him looking even more confused. "10th, between Hudson and Greenwich."
Shit. Not Helen's—no. Max just about has the presence of mind to set his clipboard down on the nurse's station rather than dropping it on the floor where he stands. "Let's go. We're going back, right now."
"But dispatch—"
Panic rising uncontrolled in his throat like bile, Max shouts "Right now," breaking into a run.
This Morning, 6:54am
She wakes with a start, coughing, from a dream where she'd been drowning. Something's wrong. The room is the wrong colour, both too dark and too bright at the same time. Her brain feels heavy; sluggish and slow to start. Still coughing, she slips out of bed and crosses the room, pulling back the blinds to reveal the open windows so she can work out what the source of the light is. The window panes are warm and there's a strange orange glow flickering outside, not at sky-level but in the courtyard, coming from one of the buildings behind hers. It's moving. It's getting bigger. As the realization hits her, Helen jumps back from the window and crouches close to the floor, moving as quickly as she can towards the stairs.
The darkness had masked the fact that the room is filled with smoke. If outside is anything to go by, it might soon be filled with fire. Worryingly, her smoke alarm isn't making a sound yet, but when she forces herself to stop moving for a second and listen, she can hear someone else's going off. That's good—at least if anyone is trapped, the fire department will be on their way. All she needs to do is get out.
When she gets to the hall door, she taps the handle to check and feels relief flood through her at the cold touch of the metal against the back of her hand. She grabs it and turns, pulling the door open and crawling through into the hallway, trying to control another explosive fit of coughing so she doesn't breathe in even more of the smoke. Her eyes are stinging and watering and she can't see properly, but she needs to get the door closed so she can keep the smoke out.
Twisting and sitting up on her heels to shut it behind her, she finds not the solid wood of the stairs that she'd been expecting beneath her knees, but nothing.
In the dark, she's misjudged where the stairs are. The fall happens so quickly that she sends the signal to her brain to raise her arms up to her head to try and protect herself, but it feels like the movement happens in slow motion—too slow. Helen hears the sound that her head makes as she slams into a step on the way down. There's a bright flash behind her eyes, and then nothing at all.